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V'TJ^SJaCH 



THE BOYHOOD 
OF LINCOLN 



NOTE 

The illustrations in this book 
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1 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 



BY 



ELEANOR ATKINSON 




» 1 
• « 
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NEW YORK 

THE McCLURE COMPANY 

MCMVIII 



Copyright, 1908, by The McClure Company 



Published, October, 1908 



i 5 wo Gooles rtecbivia 

j OCT U 'm^ 






LJr i CQinianC ' 



Copyrigiit, 1908, by The Phillips Publishing Company 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Nolan Creeky in which little Abraham was 

nearly drowned Frontispiece 

FACING 

The scene of Lincoln's birth. The pole on the ^^^^ 
knoll at the right marks the spot where 
the birthplace cabin originally stood 16 

A bit of the farm on which Abraham Lincoln 

was born 16 

The Lincoln farm spring is famous through- 
out Kentucky for the purity of its water. 
It was this spring that invited Tom 
Lincoln to locate by it, and it was the 
waters of this spring that christened the 
battleship " Kentucky " 16 

The old Louisville and Nashville pike, which 

runs through the Lincoln farm 16 

On the edge of the Lincoln birthplace farm 32 

The old house on the road to the mill where 

little Abraham used to stop for " cookies " 32 



vu 



viii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACINQ 

The old Nolan Mill, around which little ^^^^ 
Abraham used to play 32 

The Lincoln family mill stone which was used 
to grind the family meal has for many 
years been used as a door " stoop " to the 
house that was built upon the farm after 
the Lincolns went away 32 

On the Magnolia Road which runs from 
Hodgenville to the Lincoln birthplace 
farm 48 

In the country about Lincoln's first home they 
ford most of the streams rather than build 
bridges 48 



THE BOYHOOD 
OF LINCOLN 



w 



ANT to know what kind o' 
boy Abe Lincoln was? Well, 
I reckon old Dennis Hanks 
is the only one livin' that knowed him that 
arly. Knowed him the day he was born, 
an' lived with him most o' the time till he 
was twenty-one an' left home fur good. 
' Abe,' sez I, many a time, ' if you die fust 
folks'U have to come to me to find out 
what kind o' boy you was.' We used to 
laugh over that, fur it looked like he'd 
live longer'n me. I was ten years older'n 
Abe, an' he was as strong as a boss. 
* Well, Denny,' he'd say, ' I don't want 
you to die fust, fur folks'd jist nigh about 
pester me to death to I'arn what kind o' 
boy you was.' He-he-he! Abe'd had his 

3 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

joke if he'd died the next minute." The 
old man chuckled to himself and lapsed 
into a doze by the fire. 

It was in January, 1889, that the writer 
spent a long, leisurely afternoon with Lin- 
coln's cousin and playmate in his home in 
Charleston, Illinois. He was ninety years 
old at that time, and died three or four 
years later. He was living with his daugh- 
ter, Mrs. Dowling, herself a great grand- 
mother of sixty-nine, in a comfortable 
brick cottage, built, as she said, nearly 
a half century before, probably the first 
brick house in the town. The furniture 
was so old-fashioned that Tom Lincoln 
may well have made some of it. 

In a pleasant, low-ceiled sitting-room, 
with a bright rag-carpet and a coal fire, 
Dennis Hanks sat, tilted back in a splint- 
bottomed chair, asleep, in the light of 
the pale winter sunshine that streamed 

4 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

through a western window. A withered 
figure of an ancient man he was, in loose 
black clothes, his slippered feet resting on 
a rung of the chair, his gnarled, blood- 
less hands clasped on the top of a thorn 
stick that was polished by long use. A 
soft, black felt hat covered his head, a 
thin fringe of silvery white hair falling 
from under the brim to his coat collar. 
His face was clean-shaven, and his skin 
was of that peculiar, rosy transparency 
seen only in first and second childhood. 
Asleep, the old man's face was as unre- 
flective as an infant's, but in animation 
it showed a curious resemblance to Lin- 
coln's, although cast in a smaller, weaker 
mold — the high cheek-bones, broad fore- 
head, wide mouth and strong jaw, and 
the deep-set eyes that sparkled with droll 
memories, or were dimmed by tragic ones. 
He awoke suddenly and blinked his 

5 



-> 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

eyes, one of which was blind, at his visitor, 
with the sleepy amazement of a baby, and 
her presence had to be explained to him 
again. In his speech he had many words 
characteristic of the South, grafted on the 
Western stock, although he had left Ken- 
tucky at the age of eighteen. 

" Tom Linkhorn — ^hey? Yes, that's the 
way we punounced it, back thar in Kain- 
tucky, an' until Abe I'arned us better. But 
I reckon I was too old a dog to Tarn new 
tricks, an' I f urgit sometimes. .Well, Tom 
an' Nancy Hanks Lincoln lived on a farm 
in Hardin County about two miles from 
us, when Abe was bom. I ricoUect Tom 
comin' over to our house, one cold mom- 
in' in Feb'uary an' sayin' kind o' slow an' 
sheepish: ' Nancy's got a boy baby.' 

" Mother got flustered an' hurried up 
her work to go over to look after the little 
feller, but I didn't have nothin' to wait 

6 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

fur, SO I jist tuk an' run the hull two 
miles to see my new cousin. Nancy was 
layin' thar in a pole bed lookin' purty 
happy. Tom'd built up a good fire and 
throwed a b'ar skin over the kivers to keep 
'em warm, an' set little two-year-old Sairy 
on the bed, to keep 'er off the dirt floor. 
Yes, thar was only a dirt floor in the 
cabin. Sairy always was a say-nothin' lit- 
tle gal with eyes like an owl's, an' she set 
thar an' stared at the new baby, an' pinted 
'er finger at him. 

" You bet I was tickled to death. Babies 
wasn't as plenty as blackberries in the 
woods o' Kaintucky. Mother come over 
an' washed him an' put a yaller flannen 
petticoat an' a linsey shirt on him, an' 
cooked some dried berries with wild honey 
fur Nancy, an' slicked things up an' went 
home. An' that's all the nuss'n either of 
'em got. Lordy! women nowadays don't 

7 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

know what their grandmothers went, 
through an' lived — some of 'em. A good 
many of 'em died arly. Abe's said many 
a time that Nancy'd lived to be old if 
she'd had any kind o' keer, an' I reckon 
she must 'a' ben strong to 'a' stood what 
she did. 

" ' What you goin' to name him, Nan- 
cy? ' I asked her. 

" ' Abraham/ she says, ' after his gran'- 
father that come out to Kaintucky with 
Dan'l Boone. He was mighty smart an' 
wasn't afeered o' nothin', an' that's what 
a man has to be out here to make any- 
thing out o' hisself.' 

" I rolled up in a b'ar skin an' slep' by 
the fire-place that night, so I could see 
the little feller when he cried, and Tom 
had to git up an' 'tend to him. Nancy 
let me hold him purty soon. Folks are al- 
ways askin' me if Abe was a good-lookin' 

8 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

baby. Well, now, he looked jist like any 
other baby, at fust; like red cherry-pulp 
squeezed dry, in wrinkles. An' he didn't 
improve none as he growed older. Abe . 
never was much fur looks. I ricoUect how 
Tom joked about Abe's long legs when 
he was toddlin' round the cabin. He 
growed out o' his clothes faster'n Nancy 
could make 'em. 

" But he was mighty good comp'ny, 
solemn as a papoose, but inter^^fed in 
eveiything. An' he always did have fits 
o' cuttin' up. I've seen him when he was 
a little feller, settin' on a stool, starin' at 
a visitor. All of a sudden he'd bust out| 
laughin' fit to kill. If he told us what he. 
was laughin' at, half the time we couldn't ' 
see no joke. 

" Looks didn't count them days, no- 
how. It was stren'th an' work an' dare- 
devil. A lazy man or a coward was jist 

9 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

pizen, an' a spindlin' feller had to stay 

in the settlemints. The clearin's hadn't no 

use fur him. ' Tom was strong, an' he 

wasn't lazy nor afeerd o' nothin', but he 

was kind o' shif 'less — couldn't git nothin' 

ahead, an' didn't keer putickalar. Lots o' 

them kind o' fellers in arly days, druther 

hunt an' fish, an' I reckon they had their 

use. They killed off the varmints an' made 

it safe fur other fellers to go into the 

woods with an ax. 

" When Nancy married Tom he was 

workin' in a carpenter shop in Liztown. 

— Elizabethtown? — Well, I reckon. We 

was purty keerless about names them 

days. It wasn't Tom's fault he couldn't 

make a livin' by his trade. Thar was 

sca'cely any money in that kentry. Every 

man had to do his own tinkerin', an' keep 

everlastin'ly at work to git enough to eat. 

So Tom tuk up some land. It was mighty 

10 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

ornery land, but it was the best Tom could 
git, when he hadn't much to trade fur it. 
"Pore? We was all pore, them days, 
but the Lincolns was porer than anybody. 
Choppin' trees, an' grubbin' roots, an' 
splittin' rails, an' huntin' an' trappin' didn't 
leave Tom no time to put a puncheon 
floor in his cabin. It was all he could do 
to git his fambly enough to eat and to 
kiver 'em. Nancy was turrible ashamed o' 
the way they lived, but she knowed Tom 
was doin' his best, an' she wasn't the pes- 
terin' kind nohow. She was purty as a 
pitcher an' smart as you'd find 'em any- 
whar. She could read an' write. The 
Hankses was some smarter'n the Lin- 
colns. Tom thought a heap o' Nancy, an' 
was as good to her as he knowed how. 
He didn't drink, or swear, or play cyards, 
or fight; an' them was drinkin', cussin', 

quarrelsome days. Tom was popylar, an' 

11 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

he could lick a bully if he had to. He 

jist couldn't git ahead, somehow. ^^ 

" It didn't seem no time till Abe was 

runnin' 'round in buckskin moccasins an' 

breeches, a tow-linen shirt an' coonskin 

cap. Yes, that's the way we all dressed 

them days. We couldn't keep sheep fur 

the wolves, an' pore folks didn't have 

sca'cely any flax except what they could 

git tradin' skins. We wasn't much better 

off'n Injuns, except 't we tuk an intrust 

in religion and polytics. We et game an' 

fish, an' wild berries an' lye hominy, an' 

kep' a cow. Sometimes we had corn 

enough to pay fur grindin' meal an' 

sometimes we didn't, or thar wasn't no 

mill nigh enough. When it got so we 

could keep chickens, an' have salt pork 

an' com dodgers, an' gyardin sass an' 

molasses, an' have jeans pants an' cowhide 

boots to wear, we felt as if we was gittin' 

12 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

along in the world. But that was some 
years later. 

" Abe never give Nancy no trouble 
after he could walk except to keep him 
in clothes. Most o' the time we went b'ar- 
foot. Ever wear a wet buckskin glove? 
Them moccasins wasn't no putection 
ag'inst the wet. Birch bark, with hickory 
bark soles, stropped on over yarn socks, 
beat buckskin all holler, fur snow. Me 'n' 
Abe got purty handy contrivin' things 
thataway. An' Abe was right out in the 
woods, about as soon's he was weaned, 
iishin' in the crick, settin' traps fur rab- 
bits an' muskrats, goin' on coon-hunts 
with Tom an' me an' the dogs; follerin^ 
up bees to find bee-trees, an' drappin' 
corn fur his pappy. Mighty inter^^fin' 
life fur a boy, but thar was a good many 
chances he wouldn't live to grow up. "" 

" Tom got holt o' a better farm after 

13 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

awhile, but he couldn't git a clear title 
to it, so when Abe was eight years old, 
an' I was eighteen, we all lit out fur In- 
diany. Kaintucky was gittin' stuck up, 
with some folks rich enough to own nig- 
gers, so it didn't seem no place fur pore 
folks anymore. My folks was dead, an' 
I went with some relations — ^the Spar- 
rows. Yes; same Sparrows 'at raised 
Nancy. Nancy emptied the shucks out o' 
the tow-linen ticks, an' I piled ever}i:hing 
they had wuth takin' on the backs o' two 
pack bosses. Tom could make new pole 
beds an' puncheon tables an' stools, eas- 
ier'n he could carry 'em. Abe toted a gun, 
an' kep' it so dry on the raft, crossin' the 
Ohio, that he shot a turkey hen with it 
the fust day we got to Indiany. He 
couldn't stop talkin' about it till Tom 
hollered to him to quit. ' 

" Tom brung his tools, an' four hun- 

14 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

derd gallons o' whisky to trade fur land 
with Mr. Gentry. It was in Spencer 
County, back a piece from the Ohio river. 
We had to chop down trees to make a 
road to the place, but it was good land, 
in the timber whar the women could pick 
up their firewood, an' on a crick with a 
deer-lick handy, an' a spring o' good 
water. We all lived in pole-sheds fur a 
year. — Don't know what pole-sheds is? — 
Well, they're jist shacks o' poles, roofed 
over, but left open on one side; no floor, 
no fireplace, not much better'n a tree. I've 
seen Injun lodges that'd beat pole-sheds 
all holler fur keepin' out the weather. 
I don't see how the women' folks lived 
through it. Boys are half wild anyhow, 
an' me 'n' Abe had a bully good time. 
Thar was lots o' game an' fish, an' plenty 
o' work. 

" 'Bout the time we got our cabins up 

15 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

the sparrows both died o' milk-sickness 
an' I went to Tom's to live. Then Nancy 
died o' the same disease. The cow et pizen 
weeds, I reckon. O Lord, O Lord, I'll 
never furgit the mizry in that little 
green-log cabin in the woods when Nancy 
died! 

"Me 'n' Abe helped Tom make the 
coffin. He tuk a log left over from buildin' 
the cabin, an' I helped him whipsaw it 
into planks an' plane 'em. Me 'n' Abe 
held the planks while Tom bored holes 
an' put 'em together, with pegs Abe'd 
whittled. Thar wasn't sca'cely any nails in 
the kentry an' little iron, except in knives 
and guns an' cookin' pots. Tom's tools 
was a wonder to the hull deestrict. 'Pears 
to me like Tom was always makin' a cof- 
fin fur some one. We laid Nancy close to 
the deer-run in the woods. Deer was the 

only wild critters the women wasn't af eerd 

16 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

of. Abe was some'er's 'round nine years 
old, but he never got over the mizable way 
his mother died. I reckon she didn't have 
no sort o' keer — pore Nancy! "y 

The old man fell asleep again, exhaust- 
ed by his own emotions. An ancient clock 
with a quaint face, ticked loud on an old- 
fashioned dresser, while Dennis slept, a 
long half -hour. 

" Nancy," was murmured, to start him 
off again, when he woke up. 

"I reckon it was thinkin' o' Nancy an' 
things she'd done said to him that started 
Abe to studyin' that next winter. He 
could read an' write. Me'n' Nancy'd I'amt 
him that much, an' he'd gone to school a 
spell; but it was nine miles thar an' back, 
an' a pore make-out fur a school, anyhow. 
Tom said it was a waste o' time, an' I 
reckon he was right. But Nancy kep' urg- 
in' Abe to study. ' Abe,' she'd say, * you 

17 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

Tarn all you kin, an' be some account,' 
an' she'd tell him stories about George 
Washington, an' say that Abe had jist as 
good Virginny blood in him as Washing- 
ton. Mebbe she stretched things some, but 
it done Abe good. 

" Well, me 'n' Abe spelled through 
Webster's spellin' book twict before he 
got tired. Then he tuk to writin' on the 
puncheon floor, the fence rails and the 
wooden fire-shovel, with a bit o' charcoal. 
We got some wrappin' paper over to Gen- 
tryville, an' I made ink out o' blackberry 
brier-root an' copperas. Kind o' ornery 
ink that was. It et the paper into holes. 
Got so I could cut good pens out o' tur- 
key-buzzard quills. It pestered Tom a 
heap to have Abe writin' all over every- 
thing thataway, but Abe was jist wropped 
up in it. 

" * Denny,' he sez to me many a time, 

18 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

' look at that, will you? Abraham Lin- 
coln! That stands fur me. Don't look a 
blamed bit like me ! ' An' he'd stand an' 
study it a spell. 'Peared to mean a heap 
to Abe. When Tom got mad at his mark- 
in' the house up, Abe tuk to markin' trees 
'at Tom wanted to cut down, with his 
name, an' writin' it in the sand at the 
deer-lick. He tried to interest little Sairy 
in I'arnin' to read, but she never tuk to 
it. She was the only woman in the cabin 
that year, an' no neighbors fur miles. 
Sairy was a little gal, only 'leven, an' 
she'd git so lonesome, missin' her mother, 
she'd set by the fire an' cry. Me 'n' Abe 
got 'er a baby coon an' a turtle, and tried 
to git a fawn but we couldn't ketch any. 
Tom, he moped 'roimd. Wasn't wuth 
shucks that winter. He put the corn in 
in the spring an' left us to 'tend to it, an' 

lit out fur Kaintucky. Yes, we knowed 

19 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 
what he went fur, but we didn't think he'd 
have any luck, bein' as pore as he was, 
and with two childem to raise. 

"I reckon Abe'd a got discouraged 
about I'arnin' after awhile if it hadn't 
ben fur his stepmother. We was all nigh 
about tickled to death when Tom brung 
a new wife home. She'd ben Sairy Bush, 
an' Tom'd ben in love with 'er before he 
met up with Nancy, but her folks would- 
n't let Tom have 'er, because he was shif '- 
less. So she married a man named John- 
ston an' he died. Then her 'n' Tom got 
married. She had three childern of 'er 
own, an' a f our-hoss wagon-load o' goods 
— feather pillers an' homespun blankets, 
an' patchwork quilts an' chists o' drawers, 
an' a flax-wheel an' a soap kittle, an' cook- 
in' pots an' pewter dishes — ^lot o' truck 
like that 'at made a heap o' diffrunce in a 

backwoods cabin. / 

20 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

" Yes, Aunt Sairy was a woman o' 
propputy, an' could 'a' done better, I 
reckon, but Tom had a kind o' way with 
the women, an' maybe it was somethin' 
she tuk comfort in to have a man that 
didn't drink an' cuss none. She made a 
heap more o' Tom, too, than pore Nancy 
did. Before winter he'd put in a new floor, 
he'd whipsawed an' planed off so she could 
scour it; made some good beds an' cheers, 
an' tinkered at the roof so it couldn't snow 
in on us boys 'at slep' in the loft. Purty 
soon we had the best house in the kentry. 
Thar was eight of us then to do fur, but 
Aunt Sairy had faculty an' didn't 'pear 
to be hurried or worried none. Little 
Sairy jist chirked right up with a mother 
an' two sisters fur comp'ny. Abe used to 
say he was glad Sairy had some good 
times. She married purty young an' died 
with her fust baby. I reckon it was like 

21 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

Nancy, she didn't have no sort o' 
keer." ^ 

After a moment of reverie, old Dennis 
began to chuckle to himself. Tragedy and 
comedy intermingled in his memory as 
only Shakespeare and real life can bring 
them together, without incongruity or 
without losing a laugh or a tear. 

" Aunt Sairy sartinly did have faculty. 
I reckon we was all purty ragged and 
dirty when she got thar. The fust thing 
she did was to tell me to tote one o' Tom's 
cyarpenter benches to a place outside the 
door, near the hoss-trough. Then she had 
me 'n' Abe 'n' John Johnston, her boy, 
fill the trough with spring water. She put 
out a big gourd full o' soft soap, an' an- 
other one to dip water with, an' told us 
boys to wash up fur dinner. You jist nat- 
urally had to be somebody when Aunt 
Sairy was aroimd. She had Tom build 'er 

22 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

a loom, an' when she heerd o' some lime 
burners bein' 'round Gentryville, Tom had 
to mosey over an' git some lime, an' white- 
wash the cabin. An' he made 'er an ash- 
hopper fur lye, an' a chicken-house noth- 
in' could git into. Then — te-he-he-he! she 
set some kind of a dead-fall trap fur him 
an' got him to jine the Baptist Church I 
Cracky, but Aunt Sairy was some pun- 
kins! ^ 

" An' it wasn't only in things to make 
us comf 'able an' well thought of. She did- 
n't have no eddication herself, but she 
knowed what I'arnin' could do fur folks. 
She wasn't thar very long before she 
found out how Abe hankered after books. 
She heerd him talkin' to me, I reckon. 
* Denny,' he'd say, ' the things I want to 
know is in books. My best friend's the 
man who'll git me one.' Well, books was- 
n't as plenty as wild-cats, but I got him 

23 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 
one by cuttin' a few cords o' wood. 
It had a lot o' yarns in it. One I ricol- 
lect was about a feller that got near 
some darned fool rocks 'at drawed all 
the nails out o' his boat an' he got a duck- 
in'. Wasn't a blamed bit o' sense in that 
yarn." x 

" Sindbad The Sailor, in The Arabian 
Nights?" 

" Hey? Well, I reckon. I ain't no schol- 
ar. Abe'd lay on his stummick by the fire, 
an' read out loud to me 'n' Aunt Sairy, an' 
we'd laugh when he did, though I reckon 
it went in at one ear an' out at the other 
with her, as it did with me. Tom'd come 
in an' say: ' See here, Abe, your mammy 
kain't work with you a botherin' her like 
that ; ' but Aunt Sairy always said it did- 
n't bother her none, an' she'd tell Abe to 
go on. I reckon that encouraged Abe a 

heap. 

24 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

" * Abe,' sez I, many a time, * them 
yarns is all lies.' 

" ' Mighty darned good lies,' he'd say, 
an' go on readin' an' chucklin' to hisself, 
till Tom'd kiver up the fire fur the night 
an' shoo him off to bed. 

" I reckon Abe read that book a dozen 
times, an' knowed them yarns by heart. 
He didn't have nothin' much else to read 
except Aunt Sairy's Bible. He cut four 
cords o' wood onct, to git one stingy little 
slice of a book. It was a life of Washing- 
ton; an' he'd lay over the Statoots o' In- 
diany half the night. I couldn't make 
head nor tail o' that pimk. We'd git holt 
of a newspaper onct in a while, an' Abe'd 
I'arn Henry Clay's speeches by heart. He 
liked the stories in the Bible, too, an' he 
got a little book o' fables some'ers. I reck- 
on it was them stories he read that give 
him so many yarns to tell. I asked him 

25 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

onct after he'd gone to lawin' and could 
make a jury laugh or cry by firin' a yarn 
at 'em: 

" ' Abe,' sez I, ' whar did you git so 
blamed many lies? ' An' he'd always say, 
* Denny, when a story I'arns you a good 
lesson, it ain't no lie. God tells truths in 
parables. They're easier fur common folks 
to understand an' ricoUect.' His stories 
was like that. If a man'd ben doin' any- 
thing low-down, Abe'd make him feel 
meaner'n a suck-egg dog about it. 

" Seems to me now I never seen Abe 
after he was twelve 'at he didn't have a 
book some'ers 'round. He'd put a book 
inside his shirt an' fill his pants pockets 
with corn dodgers, an' go off to plow or 
hoe. When noon come he'd set down un- 
der a tree, an' read an' eat. An' when he 
come to the house at night, he'd tilt a cheer 
back by the chimbly, put his feet on the 

26 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

rung, an' set on his backbone and read. 
Aunt Sairy always put a candle on the 
mantel-piece fur him, if she had one. An' 
as like as not Abe'd eat his supper thar, 
takin' anything she'd give him that he 
could gnaw at an' read at the same time. 
I've seen many a feller come in an' look 
at him, Abe not knowin' anybody was 
'round, an' sneak out ag'in like a cat, an' 
say: * Well, I'll be darned! ' It didn't seem 
natural, nohow, to see a feller read like 
that. Aunt Sairy'd never let the chil- 
dern pester him. She always said Abe 
was goin' to be a great man some day. 
An' she wasn't goin' to have him hen- 
dered." < 

Another long, dozing nap intervened. 
The sun was declining in the west, and 
life's sands were running out for Dennis 
Hanks. He lived only in that faraway 
past with the hero of his youth, memory 

27 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

flaring up and dying away as the forces 
of life ebbed and flowed. Every time he 
slept he had to be reminded of the eager 
listener, and to have some spring touched 
to set his mind going again. Sometimes 
he would awaken only to sit and gaze 
absently out of the window, or to laugh 
to himself. If spoken to he would start 
and stare with his one dim eye a moment, 
before he could make the long leap to the 
present. 

" Hey? Is that the only way Abe I'arnt 
things — out o' books? You bet he was too 
smart to think everything was in books. 
Sometimes a preacher, 'r a circuit-ridin' 
jedge 'r lyyer, 'r a stump-speakin' poly- 
tician, 'r a school teacher'd come along. 
When one o' them rode up, Tom'd go out 
an' say : * Light, stranger,' like it was po- 
lite to do. Then Abe'd come lopin' out on 

his long legs, throw one over the top rail 

28 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

and begin firin' questions. Tom'd tell him 
to quit, but it didn't do no good, so Tom'd 
have to bang him on the side o' his head 
with his hat. Abe'd go off a spell an' fire 
sticks at the snow-birds, an' whistle like he 
didn't keer. ' Pap thinks it ain't polite to 
ask folks so many questions,' he'd say. ' I 
reckon I wasn't born to be polite, Denny. 
Thar's so darned many things I want to 
know. An' how else am I goin' to git to 
know 'em? ' 

" When Abe was about seventeen, 
somethin' happened that druv him nigh 
crazy. Thar was a feller come over from 
England — Britisher, I reckon — an' spoke 
in Congress about a settlemint he was 
goin' to lay out on the Wabash, buyin' 
out some loony Dutch religious fellers that 
had mills an' schools thar. Now, mebbe 
you think 'at us folks livin' in the back- 
woods didn't know what was goin' on in 

29 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

the world. Well, you'd be mighty mis- 
taken about that. We kep' track o' Con- 
gress fur one thing. Thar wasn't much to 
talk about but polytics, an' we thrashed 
over everything in argymints at the cross- 
roads stores. The big-bugs down East 
wasn't runnin' everythin'. Polytics had 
sort o' foUered us over the Gap trail an' 
roosted in the clearin's. Thar was Henry 
Clay in Kaintucky an' Old Hick'ry in 
Tennessee, at it tooth an' nail, an' we all 
tuk sides. 

" So when this furrin feller spoke in 
Congress about that gyarden o' Eden he 
was goin' to fence in on the Wabash, we 
soon heerd about it. Boats brung news 
every week. An' one day arly in the win- 
ter, a big keel-boat come down from Pitts- 
burg over the Ohio. They called it ' the 
boatload o' knowledge,' it had sich a passel 
o' books an' machines an' men o' I'arnin' 

30 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

on it. Then little rowboats an' rafts crossed 
over from Kaintucky, an' ox teams an' 
pack-hosses went through Gentryville and 
struck across kentry to — to — plague on it ! 
Abe'd tell you in a minute " 

" New Harmony, Robert Owen's col- 
ony?" 

"That's it! Thar wasn't sca'cely any- 
thing else talked about fur a spell. I 
reckon some folks thought it was New 
Jerusalem, an' nobody'd have to work. 
Anyway, thar was a lot o' wuthless cusses 
lit out fur that settlemint. Abe'd a broke 
his back to go, an' it nigh about broke his 
heart when he couldn't. 

" Denny, thar's a school an' thousands 
o' books thar, an' fellers that know every- 
thing in creation,' he'd say, his eyes as 
big 'n' hungry as a hoot-owl's. The 
schoolin' cost only about a hunderd dol- 
lars a year, an' he could 'a' worked out 

81 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

his board, but Abe might jist as well 'a' 
wished fur a hunderd moons to shine at 
night. I was married to one o' the John- 
stone gals by then an' had hard grub- 
bin' to keep my fambly, or I'd 'a' helped 
him. Tom didn't set no store by them 
things. An' thar it was, only about sixty 
miles west of us, an' Abe couldn't go! 
The place petered out after awhile, as it 
was sartin to do, with all them ornery fel- 
lers in it, livin' off the workers. Eut I 
reckon it lasted long enough fur Abe to 
'a' Famed what he wanted to know. Well, 
I reckon Abe put it out o' his mind, 
after awhile. If he couldn't git a thing 
he wanted he knowed how to do with- 
out it, an' mebbe he looked at it dif- 
frunt afterwards. But things'd ben eas- 
ier fur him if he could 'a' gone to that 
school."-*-- 

The tragedy of it was too big to real- 

32 



; jr V 




?5^ 




O 




.o 
-^ 



^< 




infi 


















THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

ize ! Was fate never to tire of piljng pangs 
on that great heart? Robert Owen, Will- 
iam McClure, Robert Dale Owen, Audu- 
bon for a time, and others as celebrated; 
pioneers of liberal thought; founders of 
the Indiana school system and township 
libraries; forerunners of modern educa- 
tion, social ideals and science; so near as 
to touch his experience, to excite his hopes, 
but just outside his opportunity; mock- 
ing at him with this sardonic turn of 
the wheel! The wilderness life suddenly 
took on new terrors; the youth who over- 
came such baffling, deadening mischances, 
loomed up to colossal proportions. The 
clock ticked on; clinkers dropped into the 
grate. A sleek house-cat came in on vel- 
vet paws and curled himself up on the 
braided hearth-rug, in such luxurious 
content as Lincoln never knew. Old 
Dennis awoke, with prodigious yawns, 

33 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

and took up the dropped stitch of his 
narrative.* 

" When Abe growed up he was a tur- 

* Robert Owen, the wealthy English philanthropist and 
reformer, arrived on the lower Wabash in January, 1826, with 
distinguished disciples, to begin his social and educational 
experiment at New Harmony. The most dramatic and unique 
episode of pioneer life in the Middle West, it permanently 
affected and gave direction to intellectual development, 
although the experiment itself did not long survive. Dennis 
Hanks's account of it is as remarkable for its shrewdness of 
analysis as for its accuracy. The earlier biographers entirely 
overlooked the incident as, in all probability, having deep 
and lasting influence on Lincoln's character and career. Not 
finding anything confirmatory of Dennis Hanks's statement, 
on this phase of Lincoln's youth, appeal was made to Miss 
Ida M. Tarbell, who recovered so many facts that illuminate 
his early life. She permits me to quote her here: "When I was 
writing my * Early Life of Lincoln ' I looked up this very point, 
feeling sure that he must have heard more or less of the colony 
and been interested in it, but if I found anything at all it was 
unimportant. It is not possible that he did not take an interest 
in it, for the people of Indiana were very much stirred up over 
Owen's teachings, and there was much discussion in the news- 
papers of that day, and later in the meeting of the Indiana 
state legislature." We are indebted, therefore, to Dennis Hanks 
for this distinct contribution to Lincolniana. It is probable 
that, in middle life, when the earlier biographers talked with 
him, he had forgotten it. In his second childhood memory 
of his youthful days was fully recovered. And he died before 
Miss Tarbell began her exhaustive researches. 

34 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

rible cut-up an' joker. Aunt Sairy was 
a good Baptist an' Tom an' the Johnston 
childern had jined, so the Baptist preach- 
ers always stopped at the house. Onct 
Abe tried to git a preacher to 'count fur 
them miracles about Jonah an' the whale 
an' the others, an' got him so worked up 
that when Abe asked him who was the 
father of Zebedee's childern, blamed if he 
could tell. 

" When Abe was nineteen he was as 
tall as he was ever goin' to be, I reckon. 
He was the ganglin'est, awkwardest fel- 
ler that ever stepped over a ten-rail, snake- 
fence. He had to duck to git through a 
door' an' 'peared to be all j'ints. Tom used 
to say Abe looked as if he'd ben chopped 
out wuth an ax an' needed a jack-plane 
tuk to him. Aunt Sairy often told Abe 
'at his feet bein' clean didn't matter so 
much, because she could scour the floor, 

35 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

but he'd better wash his head, or he'd be 
a rubbin' dirt off on her nice whitewashed 
rafters. 

" That put an idy in his head, I reckon. 
Several of us older ones was married then, 
an' thar was always a passel o' youngsters 
'round the place. One day Abe put 'em up 
to wadin' in the mud-puddle by the boss- 
trough. Then he tuk'em one by one, turned 
'em upside down, an' walked 'em acrost 
the ceilin', them ascreamin' fit to kill. 

" Aunt Sairy come in, an' it was so 

blamed funny she set down an' laughed, 

though she said Abe'd oughter to be 

spanked. I don't know how far he had 

to go fur more lime, but he whitewashed 

the ceilin' all over agin. Aimt Sairy's said 

many a time 'at Abe'd never made her 

a mite o' trouble, 'r spoke a cross word 

to 'er sence she come into the house. He 

was the best boy she ever seen. 

36 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

" He always liked to take a bag o' corn 
an' ride off to a hoss-mill about eighteen 
mile away to git some meal ground. The 
mill was worked by a plug an' sweep, 
pulled by a bag-o'-bones boss. Abe used 
to say his hound could eat meal faster'n 
that mill could grind it an' then go hun- 
gry fur supper. But it was a good place 
fur visitin' an' swappin' yarns. Other 
men'd be comin' in an' have to wait all 
day, mebbe, an' they'd set on a rail fence 
an' listen to Abe crackin' jokes or argyin' 
polytics. Abe'd come home with enough 
news an' yarns to last a week. I didn't 
want no other comp'ny when Abe was 
thar. 

" Abe had a powerful good mem'ry. 
He'd go to church an' come home an' say 
over the sermon as good as the preacher. 
He'd often do it fur Aunt Sairy, when 
she couldn't go, an' she said it was jist 

ar 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

as good as goin' herself. He'd say over 
eveiything from beloved brethern to Amen 
without erackin' a smile, pass a pewter 
plate fur a collection an' then we'd all 
jine him in singin' the Doxology. Aunt 
Sairy thought a heap o' Abe, an' he did 
o' her, an' I reckon they'd a done most 
anything fur one another. 

" She seemed to know Abe had more 
pride'n the rest of us. He always had a 
extry pair o' butternut-dyed jeans pants, 
an' a white shirt. When he was only thir- 
teen Aunt Sairy said to him: 'Abe, you 
git holt o' some muslin some'ers an' have 
some white shirts, so you kin go to folks' 
houses right.' So he cut nine cords o' 
wood an' got nine yards o' unbleached 
muslin, an' she bleached it an' shrunk it 
an' made him two shirts. He put one o' 
them on every Sunday.^ Mebbe Abe 

wouldn't 'a' ben the man he was if it 

38 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

hadn't ben fur his mother an' stepmother 
encouragin' him. 

"It was fur to git money to buy books, 
that Abe tuk them v'yages on the flat- 
boats. He was all fur bein' a river man 
fur a while. Tom owned Abe's time till 
he was twenty-one an' didn't want him 
to go. He was too vallyble fur chores. 
When Abe was on the farm Tom had 
more time to hunt an' fish, an' he'd al- 
ways ruther do that than grub roots 'r 
hoe corn. Yes, Tom was kind o' shif 'less. 
Well, him an' Abe struck up some kind 
o' dicker, an' Abe went off down the 
river, fur fifty cents a day, an' a bonus. 
It was big wages, but he never went but 
twict. 

" Abe didn't take to tradin' nohow. He 
was too honest to make a livin' at it, an' 
folks tuk advantage of him. He was 
popylar, an' when he clerked the store 

39 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

had plenty o' fellers comin' to it who 
liked to hear him talk, but most o' them 
thought he was plumb foolish when he 
got to tradin', so he quit that. Aunt Sairy 
always said he'd oughter go into polyties, 
because when he got to argyin' the other 
feller'd purty soon say he had enough. 
Abe was a leader, too. He could break 
up rowdy crowds by tellin' a story that'd 
make 'em ashamed or make 'em laugh. 
He wouldn't take no sass, neither. If a 
feller was spilin' fur a fight, an' nothin' 
else'd do him, Abe'd accomydate him all 
right. Ginerally Abe could lay him out 
so he wouldn't know nothin' about it fur 
a spell. In rasslin', an' runnin', an' hoss- 
back ridin', an' log-roUin', an' rail-split- 
tin' he could beat everybody. You'd 'a' 
thought there was two men in the woods 
when he got inter it with an ax. When 

he was fifteen he could bring me down 

40 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

by throwin' his leg over my shoulder. I 

always was a little runt of a feller. 

"Well! Lemme see. Yes; I reckon it 

was John Hanks 'at got restless fust an' 

lit out fur Illinois, an' wrote fur us all 

to come, an' he'd git land fur us. Tom 

was always ready to move. He never had 

his land in Indiany all paid fur, nohow. 

So he sold off his corn an' hogs an' piled 

everything into ox-wagons an' we all went 

— Linkhoms an' Hankses an' Johnstons, 

all hangin' together. I reckon we was like 

one o' them tribes o' Israel that you kain't 

break up, nohow. An' Tom was always 

lookin' fur the land o' Canaan. Thar was 

five fambhes of us, then, an' Abe. It tuk 

us two weeks to git thar, raftin' over the 

Wabash, cuttin' our way through the 

woods, fordin' rivers, pryin' wagons an' 

steers out o' sloughs with fence rails, an' 

makin' camp. Abe cracked a joke every 

41 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

time he cracked a whip, an' he found a 
way out o' every tight place while the 
rest of us was standin' 'round scratchin' 
our fool heads. I reckon Abe an' Aunt 
Sairy run that movin', an' good thing 
they did, or it'd 'a' ben run into a swamp 
an' sucked under. 

" It was a purty kentry up on the 
Sangamon, an' we was all tuk up with 
the idy that they could run steamboats 
up to our cornfields an' load; but we 
had fever'n ager turrible, so, in a year 
or two, we moved back here to Coles 
County, an' we've ben here ever sence. 
Abe helped put up a cabin fin* Tom on 
the Sangamon, clear fifteen acres fur 
corn, an' split walnut rails to fence it in. 
Abe was some'ers 'roimd twenty-one. I 
reckon it must 'a' ben them same rails 
'at John Hanks tuk " 

A bewildered look came into the old 

42 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

face that, an instant before, had been as 
full of his story as an eager child's. Here 
was a shut door that memory could not 
pass. But he tugged at the stubborn lock : 

" I reckon it must 'a' ben them same 
rails 'at John Hanks " 

" Took into the Convention at Chi- 
cago? " 

His dim eye stared into a blurred past, 
unseeing. Then he said, whimperingly, as 
if here was something to which he had 
never been reconciled: 

" It must 'a' ben about that time 'at Abe 
left home fur good." x 

The curtain of night had dropped down 

before the sun, too. It was dark outside. 

Mrs. Dowling brought in an oil lamp 

and set it down exactly in the middle 

of a crocheted mat on a little table. She 

glanced at her father, sleeping placidly 

in his chair, and pulled down the shade 

43 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

to shut out the chill of the winter even- 
ing. Then she unburdened her mind. 

" I don't want you to go away think- 
ing so bad of Grandfather Lincoln. That's 
what us younger ones called Uncle Abe's 
father; and we called him Uncle Abe, 
though he was only father's second cousin. 
I reckon kinfolks counted for more in 
early days. I'm just tired of hearing 
Grandfather Lincoln abused. Everybody 
runs him down. Father never gave him 
credit for what he was. He made a good 
living, and I reckon he would have got 
something ahead if he hadn't been so gen- 
erous. He had the old Virginia notion of 
hospitality — liked to see people sit up to 
the table and eat hearty, and there were 
always plenty of his relations and grand- 
mother's willing to live on him. Uncle 
Abe got his honesty, and his clean notions 
of living and his kind heart from his 

44 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

father. Maybe the Hanks family was 
smarter, but some of them couldn't hold 
a candle to Grandfather Lincoln, when it 
came to morals. I've heard Grandmother 
Lincoln say, many a time, that he was 
kind and loving, and kept his word, and 
always paid his way, and never turned a 
dog from his door. You couldn't say that 
of every man, not even to-day, when men 
are decenter than they used to be." 

A shrill cry, like that from a fright- 
ened child awakened by a bad dream, 
came from the chair in the sheltered 
corner. 

" Whar's my watch? Whar's my 
watch? " Old Dennis was searching his 
pockets frantically, and tottering to a 
fall. Mrs. Dowling mshed to him and 
set him upright. 

" Here, father, here's your watch! No- 
body's going to take it from you. Uncle 

45 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

Abe gave him that watch, and he gets to 
dreaming that some one is trying to rob 
him of it." She restored his cane and 
hat, and disappeared into the kitchen 
again. 

" Come 'ere," he beckoned mysterious- 
ly. " If you won't tell nobody I'll show 
you somethin'." He pulled from a secret, 
inside pocket, a heavy, old-fashioned coin- 
silver watch, with a steel chain. 

" Abe gimme that." 

"When Abe left home?" hoping to 
start the stream of memory to flowing, 
without a break in its continuity. He 
looked puzzled. Memory had leaped a 
gap of thirty-five years, to the next dra- 
matic event in that simple life. 

" I went down to Washington to see 
Abe, an' thar he was with a big watch, an' a 
chain spread over his wescoat. I plagued 
him about bein' so fine, an' he sez : ' Den- 

46 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

ny, I bet you'd carry a watch if you had 
one, you old coon.' He went out an' 
bought this fur me an' I've carried it 
ever sence. Ain't many folks ever gits to 
see it. Thar's a feller up in Chicago, that's 
plumb crazy over Abe, an' he offered me 
five hunderd dollars fur it." He stowed 
the precious relic away carefully. 

" I went down to Washington to see 
Abe about a neighbor that'd got into 
trouble. It was durin' the war, an' thar 
was a lot o' soldiers around, stickin' their 
blamed guns in everybody's faces. I hunt- 
ed 'round fur a back door to sneak in, 
but couldn't find none. A soldier asked 
me what I was doin' thar. 

" * I want to see Abe Lincoln,' I sez. 

" ' You kain't see him now,' he sez like 
a smarty. 

" ' You bet I kin. Old Dennis Hanks 
hain't come clean from Illinois to git his 

47 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

orders from a jay-bird like you!' Te-he- 
he-he! that feller got as red's an old 
turkey gobbler. 

" Well, I waded right through a passel 
o' folks, an' opened a door they was all 
watchin', an' thar sot Abe as tall an' thin 
as his own shadder, at an oV desk he'd tuk 
from his law office in Springfield, 

Hey! ' I hollered, ' git up thar an' 
shake! I ain't after no office, Abe.' 

" He run an' gethered me in like they 
did in the Bible, so I had to take out my 
bandanner. Abe looked kind o' tired. I 
reckon they worked him purty hard down 
thar, but he laughed hearty. 

" * I'm glad you don't want no office, 

Denny; most of 'em do. You've got a 

heart as big as a steer, but you ain't got 

no head fur an office.' I up an' told him 

what I come fur. He sez : * I'm too busy 

to-day, Denny, but Stanton'U fix that up 

48 










=0 



^ 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

fur you. You go over to the house an' 
Mary '11 yive you somethin' to eat an' a 
shakedown.' 

" But I put up to a tavern where I 
could feel more to home. Mary was a 
good woman, but she was too high-falu- 
tin fur me. Abe used to bring her over 
to the farm to visit Aunt Sairy, an' me 
'n' him'd set an' talk about old times. That 
riled Mary considerable. She'd git on her 
high horse an' say: ' If Abe was low-down 
an' pore you needn't be throwin' it up to 
him,' but I reckon Abe didn't look at it 
thataway. Abe never noticed Mary's pes- 
terin' no more'n an elephant would a 
skeeter. He'd jist git holt o' her hand, 
'r pat her on the shoulder, an' she'd quiet 
down. You bet Mary was a good woman 
or Abe'd never 'a' loved her like he done. 
She didn't have nothin' ag'inst his kin- 
folks, pussonal, but I reckon she figgered 

49 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

it out that we wouldn't help Abe's chances 
none. Mary thought the sun rose an' set 
in Abe. Thar's one thing Abe didn't miss, 
his women-folks stuck up fur him; Nancy 
an' Aunt Sairy an' Mary, an' I reckon 
that made up fur a good many other 
things. It must 'a' ben the way he treated 
'em. Onct he said to me : ' Denny, men 
oughter be mighty good to women, fur 
nature give 'em the big end o' the log to 
lift, an' mighty little stren'th to do it 
with.' 

" Mary was smart an' high-feelin' about 
Abe. When they was fust married she'd 
toss her head way up in the air like a 
blood-colt, an' tell us what a big man 
Abe was goin' to be. I enjyed laughin' 
over that, fur when a feller's as honest 
as Abe was, it ginerally stands in the way 
o' his gittin' on in the world. He purty 

nigh always got the wust of a trade. An' 

50 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

then he didn't look great. He looked jist 
like the rest of us, only some humlier; 
kind o' common an' neighborly, not a bit 
stuck-up. You jist naturally hked to set 
an' visit with Abe. 

" WeU, as I was say in', when I went 
down to Washington near the end o' the 
war, I knowed better 'n to put Mary out 
when mebbe she'd be bavin' fine comp'ny. 
Next mornin' Abe gimme the papers fur 
my case an' told me to take 'em over to 
Stanton. 

" ' Abe,' sez I, * blamed if I know whar 

the plageoned place is ! ' Abe laughed an' 

said somethin' about the mountain com- 

in' to someun, talkin' in parables like old 

times, an' sent out a little feller 'at had 

on brass buttons enough to stock a store, 

an' purty soon Stanton come rampagin' 

in, snarlin' about them papers. But Abe 

made him sign 'em, an' he went out 

51 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

switchin' his spike-tail coat like a pesky 
crow. An' I said: 

" ' Abe, if I's as big as you I'd take 
that little feller acrost my knees an' spank 
him. He's too sassy.' Abe he laughed an' 
said Stanton was a bigger feller'n him 
some ways, an' I said he had a darned 
ugly way o' showin' it. But that was jist 
like Abe, never runnin' anybody down, 
findin' the good in 'em, an' bearin' with 
their little meannesses. Abe didn't know 
how to be mean hisself . When God made 
Abe Lincoln He left the meanness out 
fur other folks to divide up among 
'em. I reckon the rest of us got our 
sheer." 

Mrs. Dowling opened the door, giving 
a glimpse of a bright dining room and a 
board bountifully spread. Hospitality was 
one of the Hanks' failings also. 

" Supper's ready, father. You'll have 

52 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

supper with us, won't you? " to the 
stranger. 

"Go 'way! Lemme 'lone!" cried old 
Dennis querulously, like a spoiled child 
interrupted in some absorbing play. His 
daughter made a comical face and shut 
the door hastily. Almost instantly he fell 
asleep. The cheerful sounds of the family 
at their evening meal penetrated to the 
silent room. Life goes on thus, flowing 
smoothly through long stretches of years ; 
morning and evening, working, eating 
and sleeping; children playing in the sun 
and growing tall. A church bell called to 
the weekly prayer-meeting. How peace- 
ful it was, how reassuring! Suddenly, as 
startling as a pistol shot in the silence, 
old Dennis cried out of his sleep: 

" Dead! Honest Abe dead! My God, it 
ain't so ! " 

He was staring at the flickering shad- 

53 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

ows of the firelight on the wall, in dazed 
horror, as at some fearful messenger. Then 
he aroused himself from the dream, shifted 
uneasily in his chair and sighed. 

" I've heerd that night an' day fur nigh 
onto twenty-five years, an' I kain't believe 
it yit. I was settin' in my shop peggin' 
away at a shoe, when a man come runnin' 
in from the street, lookin' like a ghost, 
an' said: ' Dennis, honest Abe's dead; shot 
dead!' 

" It was in Aprile, an' the sun was 
shinin' an' the grass turnin' green, jist 
as if nothin' had happened, an' it seemed 
to me like the arth'd stopped. Thar wasn't 
any tradin' done sca'cely. Everything was 
kivered with black, an' people standin' 
round in the streets cryin'. I had to go 
out to the farm to tell Aunt Sairy. Tom'd 
ben dead a good while, an' she was livin' 
on thar, alone. 

54 



« < 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

' Aunt Sairy,' sez I, * Abe's dead.' 
Yes, I know, Denny. I knowed 
they'd kill him. I ben awaitin' fur it,' 
an' she never asked no questions. She was 
gittin' purty old, an' I reckon she thought 
she'd soon jine him. She never counted 
on seein' him agin after he went down to 
Washington, nohow. He come out to the 
farm to see 'er, an' when he kissed her 
good-by she reached her old hands up to 
his shoulders an' looked at him as if he's 
alayin' in his coffin then, an' sez to him: 
'You'll never come back, Abraham!' 

Don't you worry. Mammy,' he sez. 
* I'll come back all right.' But Mary sez 
Abe hisself thought he never would. He 
had them warnin' dreams an' second sight, 
an' them ain't healthy signs. 

" Well, I was gittin' purty old myself. 
I was sixty-six, an' nothin' but a little 
dried-up nubbin of a shoemaker. I didn't 

55 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

take no more intrust in things, an' folks 
thought I'd go next. But it's ben nigh onto 
twenty-five years, an' here I am hvin' yit, 
an' not wuth shucks to nobody. 'Pears to 
me like thar ain't ben nothin' happened 
wuth talkin' about, an' nobody much wuth 
talkin' to sence Abe's gone. 

" Some folks think you won't know 
anybody when you git to heaven, but I 
bet I'll know Abe Lincoln. He went 
straight thar, an' I ain't takin' no chances 
on it, but am livin' the best I know how, 
by church rules, so I kin go to heaven, 
too, an' meet up with Abe. Thar was a 
preacher feller come here onct, an' I was 
talkin' to him about thar not bein' any 
sense in Abe bein' shot thataway, an' him 
only fifty-six an' strong as a boss. An' he 
said 'at he reckoned Abe'd done his work 
an' the Lord knowed best. 

Done his work, hey?' I hollered. 
5Q 



cc < 



THE BOYHOOD OF LINCOLN 

* He hadn't lived his life. I wouldn't 'a' 
give a darn if he'd never done another 
lick o' work, if he'd jist come home an' 
let me visit with him onct in awhile. 

" Thar won't be another man like Abe 
Lincoln this side o' jedgement day!" 



THE END 



57 



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